Conversations of Pain
by thegreatbluespoon
Summary: Dad, why does your finger bend like that? GSR.


Drabcomfluff-- best description I have for this. You take some drabble, add a wee bit of comedy, some fluff, the fact that I like making up words, and this is what you get.

Grassy ass for the love via reviews, mi amigas.

* * *

It was breaking. 

Well, he was sure it was breaking, anyway.

It sure as hell felt like it.

And _what_ was that noise she was making?

Was that normal?

Normal given the situation, sure, but physically was _that_ sound normal?

No, that's not a normal sound…is it?

Hadn't he heard Chewbacca make a sound just like that once before? Oh, she'd kick his ass all over the room if she knew he'd just referenced her to Chewy.

What does that sound even qualify as anyways? Like a screech, or is that a squall?

Well, whatever it was, it was hurting his ears…almost as much as his hand…that he was still positive was being broken at that very moment.

Grissom cried out in pain. "Oh, my bug lovin' God! Sweetheart, you have to let me go!"

"Bet…me!"

"Sara! Honey, you're breaking my hand!" he yelled, trying to free his hand from her death-grip.

"You…are such…a wuss," she breathed.

"Sara, you don't mean that."

"The hell…I don't."

"Ease off of it a bit, will ya?" he begged, but she only squeezed more as another contraction hit.

"Doctor, she's breaking my hand!" he yelled as she screamed.

"She's right. You _are_ a wuss," the doctor laughed as he encouraged Sara.

Sara continued to regret her request for no drugs throughout her labor, as did Grissom, but both were glad in the end.

---

Getting set to leave the hospital, Grissom supported the baby carrier with his left arm, seeing as his right was set in a cast due to the fact that his hand was broken.

Securing his new son in the backseat, Grissom accidentally hit his injured hand. Letting out a pained noise, he instinctively grabbed his arm and shot Sara a blameful look.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"Oh, nothing," he said sarcastically. "Just that I wouldn't be having troubles if _someone_ would have let up on my hand like I asked them to a million times."

Sara shrugged, as if to say, 'wonder who?' and carefully climbed into the passenger seat.

When Grissom finished his work in the back, he got in and hit his hand on the steering wheel. Letting out a frustrated sound, he ignored Sara's slight giggle at the moment. Putting on his seatbelt, he turned to her and waited.

Knowing what he wanted, but not feeling as though she owed it to him, Sara ignored him. But after he just sat there…and sat there, she gave in. "What?!" she laughed as she turned in her seat to face him.

"Don't even 'what' me, Sara," he said, his face completely serious. "You know exactly what I'm waiting for. Let's get on with it, please."

"Excuse me?" she snorted. "I don't even think so," she said, shaking her head. "I'm so not apologizing to you. And even if I were going to do it before, I'm certainly not going to now. Apologies mean crap if they're ordered."

"So it'll mean crap, but you still owe me one. You know you do."

"Why?"

He stared at her in disbelief for a moment before he practically shoved his cast in her face. "You _broke_ my hand! Broke! As in, the bones are in wee little pieces because of _you_!"

"Oh, my God, grow up," she laughed.

"You grow up!" he ordered. "You maimed me!"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I didn't _maim_ you."

He waived his casted arm at her.

"Okay, maybe I did," she conceded.

"At least you admit it now."

She felt the need to point out the obvious. "You know, the doctor said it was fractured. Fractured is different than broken is, Gil."

"Uh-yeah, but…" he held his right hand up again. "We still get charged for the birth of our child and for the damage you caused _during_ the birth."

"Are you going to cry about this all day? Do you want some ice cream or something?" She laughed as she asked the sarcastic questions. "Does baby wanna stop somewhere and get some crickets for din-din?"

"Funny," he said and gave a mock laugh. "I want my apology."

Letting out a sigh, Sara gave in and began such. "Gilbert Grissom, I am _so _sorry that I felt as though the pain I was experiencing yesterday, the pain that I felt while I was feeling as if I was trying to fit a watermelon through a goddamn straw, the pain I felt while giving birth to our _son_, was so incredibly intense that I couldn't help but squeeze the hell out of your hand. I'm so _terribly_ sorry that your poor body went through the amount of trauma that it did yesterday," she said, almost with a straight face through the whole of it.

"Why do I get the feeling that you don't mean it?"

"Probably 'cause I don't," she laughed and patted his right arm. He cringed a bit and she gave a half-hearted apology for it as well before he started the vehicle and they made their way home.

---

Five years later, Grissom sat at the table with his son, slowly coming to terms with the fact that, yeah, even he was capable of being stumped by first grade homework.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, rubbing his face in frustration.

The child sighed and slumped further in his seat. "Can't I just go get Mom?"

"No, you may not," Grissom answered quickly, scanning the pages in front of him.

"I bet she knows the answer," came a sing-song response.

"No."

"Dad-"

"No," Grissom said, still rifling through the text book.

Noticing that his father was becoming incredibly consumed in the pages of his book, the boy slowly began to slide out of his chair. Forget this silliness. He was going to find his mother, knowing she'd have the answer.

Just as he'd gotten off the chair, Grissom reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt. "Found it!" Grissom exclaimed.

His reply was a groan and, "You said that ten minutes ago, Dad."

"Stop acting like your mother and c'mere," Grissom said, pulling the kid over to where he could see the page. "Look. Right here, it says the answer is goats," he said, pointing the sentence out to his son. "Told you I'd find it."

Completely ignoring what his father was pointing at, the boy reached up and touched his father's right little finger. "Dad, why's your finger bent like that?"

"What?" Grissom asked, turning his attention to what his son was asking about.

"Your hand. What's wrong with it?" he asked, pointing to the slight bend outward that was now permanent in Grissom's pinky.

Grissom sighed, "Go ask your mother. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to tell you."

* * *

I'm sure she would. 

I'm also kinda sure that you should go review for me. Grassy ass, dearies.

thegreatbluespoon


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